Yesterday we had some lovely dinner guests. They’re the kind of couple that make you feel relaxed, no matter what happens. They were the perfect guests for an imperfect night.
It started with a false promise. Hubby sent a text ‘Hey, want to join us for some homemade pizza‘. To which they promptly replied ‘Yes’, because it’s homemade pizza, and who doesn’t love that? Exactly. Except that I was already in the kitchen whipping up some lentil soup. Lentil soup is good, but it’s no homemade pizza.
But our guests rolled with the punches and raved about the mediocre soup. They’re just those kinds of people.
To make matters worse, Hubby made dessert. I gave him a pie shell and told him and Boo to make a pie. I imagined they would simply dump some berries in there and call it a day. But Hubby had other plans. He always does. And out came the cookbook. The Mennonite Girls Can Cook cookbook.
I got this cookbook for Christmas several years ago. I like it a lot, but Hubby takes offense at the title.
“I can’t believe they got away with this title. It’s so sexist,” he always comments whenever he sees it lying around. “Can’t Mennonite boys cook too?”
I think he thinks he’s witty.
Anyway, on this particular day he decided to prove his point and master the lemon meringue pie. So there we were, cooking side by side completely oblivious to each other’s actions, me cooking my lentils and him … making meringue? I remember hearing the odd comment of, “This looks weird…” and “Oh man! That’s not supposed to happen…” and “Oops, it said for 1/3 tsp. That’s the same as a 1/3 cup, right?” and “I think it will be okay”.
But it wasn’t okay. I’m not going to lie. During dinner we all watched as the golden meringue turned flat and gray and oozed over the pie crust and onto the bottom of the oven.
“We’re watching a movie,” Boo said happily as we all watched in horror, slurping our lentil soup.
And still, our guests tried the pie. They were real champs.
“It takes like eggs,” they said in deep thought. “I like eggs.”
“I don’t think I got any crust,” they said, while quizzically digging through the yellow goo.
While Hubby and I cleaned up the debris from our dinner, our guests chased Boo around the house and read her her bedtime story. They’re her favorite babysitters. They’re our favorite people too. We feel very lucky to have them in our lives.
I would like to give them our sincerest apologies.
They’ve invited us over for dinner tomorrow night…
Not our dinner…